


in plain sight

by cptsuke



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsuke/pseuds/cptsuke
Summary: Faraday tells stories sometimes, when he's of the mind, or a little further into the bottle than might be wise.A useful thing when he's fixing to fleece men of their hard earned dollars, less so when it's folks he's travelling with regular.





	in plain sight

**Author's Note:**

> okay. this is kind of near and dear to my heart, ive rewritten it completely at least twice and have about eight versions scattered in the ether.  
> That being said, if something has come across wrong minded, or flat out offensive please let me know so i can change it, or warn for it, as no ill will or the such was intended. I am not trans, so there are no doubt intricacies that i may have fucked up and i'd rather be told than go on offending others.
> 
> (just as an added note, the stories Joshua tells are purposefully vague, but i actually have a fully fleshed outline of his previous dead life lying around somewhere if some are curious)

Faraday tells stories sometimes, when he's of the mind, or a little further into the bottle than might be wise.

He takes it as proof that it sits heavy in his mind even though its years past and seldom thought.

It's a sad story - all the bits added up – captures the attention, or distracts the people who're listening.

A useful thing when he's fixing to fleece a man of his hard earned dollars, less so when it's folks he's travelling with regular.

The thing is, Faraday ain't used to travel buddies, ain't kept up regular company since he'd been thirteen year old Johanna and his mother had succumbed to the consumption they'd been trying to outrun on a wagon trail headed west.

The staying in one place, keeping company with the same folks for days on end, it wore on a man holding secrets. 

He'd maybe fucked up, telling each one of the seven separate stories, sharing out his past like it wouldn't come back to bite him when he gave out too much.

 

He tells Sam a story first night out, Joan of Arc and her puppy keeping their own silent council a ways off, about a little girl, crossing the barren lands, coming west. A family who'd been kind to her after her mother's passing half way across.

She'd gotten a marker out where the country first turned barren and, though it's been a score of years past, he can remember the sad pyramid of rocks with the sort of clarity that usually only came when his finger is caressing a trigger.

He doesn't say that the family had been too busy with their own brood of children to tend to an ailing child and Faraday had been wild long before the scenery had changed to match his temperament.

Whatever Sam thinks of his story, he keeps his own council.

 

He's more than a little drunk, his half day of drinking well and truly _done_ , when he tells Billy the story of a sweet teamster boy who took a liking to wild little Johanna. A quiet mouse of a kid with fast hands and impossibly big dreams.

(He'd strike it rich. He'd be a sheriff, all proud with tin stuck on his chest. He'd win big hands from fellows with more money than sense.)

He doesn't tell him that years later he'll have gambled away all their savings and any chance of life they might have had. Faraday won't feel much of anything for the man then, but when he's thirteen, with a dead mother and stuck in a rickety wagon cot maybe dying from a break bone fever, the boy's ill practiced card tricks are the only thing that kept him going.

(he'd clumsily repeated the motions with fever weak hands, dropping the cards more oft than not)

But he gets better and, more importantly, by the time he's recovered from the sickness he can read all the teamster boy's tells, and whether the sour faced, horseless cowboy was holding a card hand full of gold or sand.

When they'd hit what was now Carson City, Faraday had a pocket full of coins, at least four people swearing to never play poker with him again, and that teamster boy that had wanted his hand in marriage.

Billy had stared him with the best poker face Faraday had ever seen for a good minute before turning back to Goodnight.

 

To Red Faraday isn't ashamed to say he talks the poor kid's ear off. His stories twist something towards personal when his audience is silent and uncomprehending, which makes him exactly the sort of asshole he's always known himself to be.

It's a long ride to Rose Creek and when he finds himself beside the native Faraday finds himself sharing how if he just keeps the right amount of dirty, the grime on his face gives his jaw the sort of shadow he can appreciate. 

He tells him how he don't got much but a horse that likes none but him, two pistols that shoot straight and one that no one sees coming, he's got an old deck of cards and fingers fast enough use them. He says that's all he needs but when Red turns his silent look on him, Faraday toasts what's left in his flask towards him and mutters, ' _and maybe some more whiskey_ ,' and doesn't say nothing about how much he's enjoying a good night's sleep with six other's to watch his back. He trusts these men too quickly, their worth already clearly visible.

(later when the boy says _I'm hungry_ Faraday just about has a heart attack. But Red never says a god damned thing and Faraday remembers that his people don't keep to the same rules that god fearing white men did. And maybe something twists in his chest, because he doesn't know what to do with acceptance, even if it is the silent kind. )

 

He's drinking out on the saloon's veranda, watching the stars and listening to the creaks of a town gone to sleep. Goodnight's matching him drink for drink and he slurs something about Johanna and the teamster boy. How they'd married young because it was the thing to do, because there was a child coming.

He nurses the dregs of his flask as Billy comes to usher Goodnight to bed and the night turns dark for him in more ways than one.

He seriously considers riding out and not coming back.

He's not scared to die, ain't nothing but maybe unwisely anticipating the oncoming battle, but these people are getting familiar to him. And soon enough he'll forget to be careful, he'll slip up, and all this goodwill and friendliness will dry up and he'll be back to being alone.

But he doesn't.

Because he _wants_ to stay. And Faraday's already done his time doing what folk thought he ought.

Now he does what he wants.

 

Teddy he finds himself alone with, tidying up the rifles after another long day of failed practice. He tells him stories of a sweet boy turned no good. Of a girl more man than the boy she married. She'd been better at cards, better at shooting, and yet she'd let her husband run them into trouble to keep his ego soothed. The kid scowls at Faraday like he's somehow been made the butt of a joke, and maybe if he squints, Faraday thinks, he could see the connection Teddy's making between him and Ms Emma even if it was truly accidental.

 

Speaking softly sometimes, talking with dark humour other times, as they wire up the dynamite, he tells Vasquez the story of Johanna, who had waited too long to fix the problems she'd seen coming. And all she had left was a murdered husband and dead child. He twirls Ethel absentmindedly as he tells of the revenge she'd hunted for and got.

He doesn't say how he'd put on pants the night he'd gone hunting for that revenge, and how goddamned _right_ it had felt. He doesn't tell Vasquez of how he'd never dressed as a lady again, how he'd slowly created himself and become reborn as Joshua, all foul mouthed and sly fingers. A crackshot. A gambler. A man.

Vasquez calls him _guero_ some more and with a grin that lights up his entire face he says ' _just like us, huh?'_

 

It's to Ms Emma he actually tells to put some pants on.

He can't tell her how it feels to cradle the soft skull of a dying child, nor does he want to know how it feels to lose a husband that was actually loved. She's not like he is, of that he's sure, but he knows something of the need for revenge, and long skirts are a might heavy to be running around in mid gunfight.

She thinks he's making fun of her and he doesn't correct her misconceptions.

 

He tells Horne - in the early hours between dark and dawn on that last day, when a man might be inclined to feel something godly in the world – a story about a worthless husband's debts and a child breathing it's last breaths in poor Johanna's arms.

He doesn't correct Horne's thoughts on who played what part in the story. Doesn't tell any particulars, just gives something of a gift in old grief. Something that maybe doesn't hurt as sharp as it used to, but gnaws forever more.

He doesn't know what Horne thinks of his story, the man just puts his fish to pan and stokes the fire with a mumble to his Lord.

 

He's given them all the parts of himself that he has. All the bits and pieces of the past that could be slowly pieced together like clues.

He's gutshot when Sam offers him his horse as though there was salvation to be found in riding away now, so he demands something more valuable in return.

And then he's riding across the field at full gallop hoping for one last chance to do something this time, one last chance to change things before it was too late.

Knocked from his horse he struggles to his feet; blood soaking clothes warm and wet. As that last bullet shatters something and brings him to his knees, he thinks maybe he'd have liked to tell them one more story.

Tell the story of how he'd been born wrong but managed to settle himself out right anyway. How it had taken him some time but he'd become who he always should have been in the end.

He'd been a homely woman. Wide and tall with no bust to speak of. But it was a good body for trousers, loose shirts and a well buttoned vest. And when he'd gotten all dressed up, he'd thought for the first time that maybe he could live like this.

Faraday lights the dynamite he's got hidden and thinks it's time for someone else to tell how the story ends.

 

 

He wakes.

Maybe.

Somewhere near him someone is speaking in a voice he doesn't understand. His eyelids are heavier than gold and it takes all his energy to slit them open the tiniest bit.

A dark blur sits beside him and he feels a floating numbness that's making the tightness underneath it bearable.

The blur moves and Faraday slips back into the darkness.

 

He wakes a few more times just like that.

To Horne's quiet but heavy presence at bedside.

To Goody and Billy in quiet conversation.

To the sound of Red fletching arrows.

To Sam's firm hand pressing against his forehead.

To the sound of low voice speaking in Spanish and something that feels like a foot pressed close by his side.

 

He wakes a final time. A monstrous pain roars dulled behind the Lord only knows how much laudanum. It feels like every inch of him is strapped tight with bandages but he feels bared in a way that has him fumbling weakly for a sidearm.

Spanish stops mid sentence as his eyes stay open for longer than a moment.

Vasquez almost falls over as he hurriedly straightens up from where he's been sprawled out on a bedside chair, feet resting up on Faraday's bed.

“ _Ser_ _á_ _s mi muerte,_ _Guero,”_ He mutters to himself, holding up a glass of water for Faraday to gently sip before quietly asking, “How are you feeling?”

“More catgut stitches than man.” Faraday answers, grinning with more bravado than he feels.

Vasquez's returning smile is crooked but bright and as Faraday closes his eyes, the sound of the Mexican's voice starts up again.

And Faraday thinks maybe it's his turn to hear a story this time.

 


End file.
